


Pyrrhic Victory

by Arithanas



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, Athos know duel is a sacred ritual where rules must be followed and enforced, but a sparring session is not a duel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhic Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/gifts).



> My gratitude to [QuantumButterfly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QuantumButterfly) for going beyond the duty with beta work.

The fencing hall was at full capacity, and the sheer quantity of red and blue uniforms piled up on the benches was proof of the increasing rivalry. Even a novice like Aramis could notice the conflict was escalating.

Porthos found a secluded spot for them to train a bit; Athos’ polite questioning helped a lot to advance them in the queue. Promises about a short spar between Porthos and Athos were made, but Aramis knew that there was not enough time for an exhibition of their martial prowess, because time always ran short whenever Athos and Porthos faced each other: Porthos was mostly unable to pass Athos’ defenses and Athos was always cautious against hurting Porthos’ monumental ego. This session's aim was to help Aramis improve a bit on the defects he still held regarding his ripostes. Taking a step in front of the watching Musketeers, Porthos, lacking time to shed his enormous doublet, took the central spot.

The first sessions were quite simple; the training befitted the less advanced musketeer. Porthos always had been the perfect quintain: big and almost unmovable. Aramis discovered, after a couple of unsuccessful thrusts, that Porthos also had been working on his parrying, because the epée ―a weapon they never ever trained with, to Aramis' chagrin, since clothes were seldom respected— was being kept away from the line far too frequently.

The rest of the corps present watched the action in packed lines and proved to be an effective screen. If this was premeditated, Aramis never saw how Athos had arranged it -since the last time he parted his lips was to ask their comrades to advance Aramis in the waiting list. Athos was like that, silent but effective, and at the same time distressing in his intelligence, Aramis was keenly aware of his eyes following each and every movement of the session. Athos’ discreetly clearing of the throat announced every few movements when any of them made a mistake. They all understood that Athos could make his comments that way: it was less enervating for Aramis’ nerves and discouraged Porthos from making too many colorful remarks, which didn't help his comrades’ tranquility either. Nonetheless, the rest of the gathering was ready to shout their advice with good -mannered banter. Esprit de corps certainly materialized in strange ways.

They broke up the session after half an hour to drink a sip of the house wine and wipe their sweat-drenched foreheads; spring was not being gentle to overcrowded Paris. The circle of musketeers parted and each group showered advice on their partners, as was the custom. Athos, completely faithful to his method, remained distant from both groups as neither of the sparring partners had his complete approval, yet none of his comrades could benefit from his wise words; not that they would heed them anyway.

As he waited for the session to resume, Athos ambled over to the training area, asked a servant boy for a cup of wine and, in general, kept to himself while acknowledging with a nod those persons who he deemed reasonable to give greetings to. Somehow, this intentional dispassion attracted the worst kind of trouble available in the room. Such was Athos’ luck.

“Good day,” said one of the Cardinal’s Guards, standing by Athos’ side and attempting, rather feebly, to show civility.

The greeting was strange and almost managed to put Athos on his guard, but when the servant boy brought him his wine he abandoned all efforts.

“To you too,” he replied, as courtesy demanded, drinking his wine.

The man didn’t walk away after that polite exchange; he just stood there, arms crossed, surveying the groups who by that moment were in full debate. Athos had almost put a name to that face, when the man spoke again.

“It’s such a shame this fencing hall allows a bunch of gossipy hens to hoard the floor, don’t you believe?”

“There is no waste in discussing the art, instead of thrusting blindly around like playful children.”

The reply was vicious, but Athos attempted to temper it with a polite bow.

“There is no need for blind thrusts, when your opponent keeps his place like the rules demand.”

The bow was returned with all the mockery one could put into a polite gesture.

“When you have done the faithful imitation of the misdeed you condemn so harshly, _monsieur_ , you can find me here to educate you in the way musketeers defend their ground.”

Those last words were spoken in the precise moment that the hall fell silent, as if an angel had passed among them, and they didn’t fall on idle ears. Athos blamed his bad luck, again, but his comrades seemed elated by his bravado.

“Is that a challenge, _monsieur_?”

“That was an invitation to spar.”

“Because Athos doesn’t need a duel to teach a Guard a lesson!”

“Porthos,” Aramis admonished, “do us all a favor and keep quiet.”

“It would be a pleasure, _monsieur_ Athos,” said the Guard, letting his sword out of its scabbard.

“At your service,” Athos didn't heed Porthos. He was making a conscious effort to remember the name of that Guard.

The crowd parted and left enough room for the sparring men to fight. None of them believed that this was just a sparring session; and besides, Athos always was a good show.

Athos presented his sword and adopted a very comfortable stance, like this was precisely a fencing spar. The Guard did a very short presentation and stood rigidly still; if he was expecting Athos to lunge forward, he was bound to have a frightful disappointment.

 _'Allez_ , _allez'_ was shouted by the crowd, but the combatants needed no encouragement. Aramis was starting to feel antsy,- the opponents were taking a lot of time just gaining each other’s’ measure, Porthos, by his side, was unusually quiet, his eyes trying to make something from the aloof stance of Athos; that species of trance was habitual when Athos' sword was out - there was a lesson there, but Porthos just couldn't grasp it.

The Guard made the first movement, advancing with sudden violence, but Athos was just taking care of his attacks, diverting the sword from the line, holding his ground, as he promised. Soon the fortes were engaged and both opponents were tangled in close proximity.

“ _Corps-à-corps_!” the collective called; they were almost feet to feet.

Athos heeded the instruction and tried a _passe arrière_ , but that was the moment when the Guard chose to cross Athos’ face with a solid punch that sent the Musketeer to the ground with a sickening, cracking noise. The next moments were pure chaos. Musketeers and Guards tried to advance and filled the sparring area; the Guard advanced with murderous intent but Athos had enough time to roll on the floor, change his sword hand, and protect himself with a _sixte_ so close that one couldn’t pass a sewing thread through it.

“Make way!” Athos demanded, without even raising his voice. There was blood over his face, dripping on his impossibly white collar.

That command was peremptory enough; the Musketeers reacted out of habit and the Guards obeyed just because the sudden retreat of their rivals had left them in the most absurd position of being the only ones hindering the sparring match. Athos almost jumped to his feet, his right hand over his face, trying to contain the blood.

“Porthos, watch Athos”

“I know. That's what I call bravery!”

Aramis pulled Porthos’ shirt to make him pay attention.

“Watch his feet...” Aramis commanded through clenched teeth.

Porthos noticed it once he paid proper attention: Athos had his supporting foot trembling from the knee down. For a second, Porthos wondered how Aramis noticed that that was the cue for Athos’ distress. There was not enough time to wonder, Athos threw his right hand to the side and blood dripped to the floor.

“Are you ready, _monsieur_?”

Athos' voice was calm and, except for his right foot, his stance was serene and collected. There was an eerie silence in the hall.

The Guard didn't take his time in gaining Athos' measure. Instead, he lunged forward almost savagely.

“ _Finta_!” Athos called, parrying; his parry almost became an engagement.

The maneuver was correctly identified and the Guard was taken aback; he retreated and tried a different approach.

“ _Coulé_ ,” Athos called again, botching the attempt at a simple hit.

Athos was adding injury to insult, right there, among his fellows, almost invincible, calling his opponent’s attacks, and parrying the hits as if they were the feeble attempts of a kid playing with a wooden sword. The Cardinal’s Guards among the crowd were biting their mustaches in rage.

“ _Prise de Fer_ ,” Athos murmured almost to himself when the weak part of his opponent’s sword danced around his blade.

The Musketeers gasped collectively, because that tactic never had worked before with Athos; his wrist was potent enough to string his opponent’s blade into a _liement croisé_ from the forte that rendered him unable to attack. And history repeated itself again, as was bound to happen.

“ _Corps-à-corps_!” The audience cried, but they were late for the call.

The Guard had barely enough time to give Athos a stunned look before the musketeer bashed his head against the Guard’s skull without any mercy. Half of the crowd was both amused and amazed, while the other half was obviously outraged; none did anything as the Guard fell like a sack of grain. Athos shrugged and walked towards his friends, swinging a little. Porthos and Aramis noticed that he was still dazed but whether his dizziness was provoked by that heinous punch or from his own reckless attack remained to be sorted out.

“Porthos?” Athos called once he was close enough, keeping his voice even.

“Tell me, Athos”

“Is he regaining his feet?”

Porthos and Aramis checked the Cardinal Guards crowd, but only Porthos was tall enough to notice something.

“I don’t think so, but there is not much to see through all the red…”

“Good,” Athos said, and proceeded to collapse without making any other sound.

*****

Athos tried to not think of that disgusting pink water as he washed away the dried blood. Washing the blood away was the first thing he could think of once he had recovered his senses in that dark tavern, surrounded by half the Musketeer corps. As the water dripped into the bucket, he wondered why he hadn’t accepted all the wine that was pushed his way first; his nose was still a bit sore, but it didn’t seem broken, and his head pounded. He couldn’t blame his bad luck this time.

“Here,” Porthos said with one hand on Athos’ shoulder while offering a tin cup filled with wine. “Drink this.”

“Here,” Aramis said, offering him a handkerchief, “Tilt your head back and press the ice against your nose. Maybe we can still save your Greek profile.”

For a moment, Athos felt really grateful for the couple of friends that came to his aid.

“And how do you propose I do both things at the same time?”


End file.
